


Strange Bedfellows

by devilinthedetails



Category: PIERCE Tamora - Works, Tortall - Tamora Pierce
Genre: Duty, Fatherhood, Gen, Marriage, Neglect, Wedding, Wedding Preparations, fathers and sons, happiness, perfection, references to alcoholism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-10
Updated: 2018-10-10
Packaged: 2019-07-29 02:56:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16255253
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/devilinthedetails/pseuds/devilinthedetails
Summary: For Wyldon, marriages make strange bedfellows.





	Strange Bedfellows

Strange Bedfellows

Marriages made strange bedfellows, Wyldon thought as he paced the tiles of the atrium in the temple where his Margarry would soon be wed to that hellion from Jesslaw he had developed the bad habit of calling Owen. His fingers itched with the desire to straighten decorations that didn’t need arranging just to have something to do while he waited, useless as a rusted sword, to escort his beloved youngest daughter down the nave to her new life, but he was afraid to touch anything because last time he had done so during Sunarine’s wedding, he had knocked over a flower vase, earning himself a severe scolding from Vivenne.

A door to his left swung open, and Nealan of Queenscove’s harried face emerged from the chamber where Owen’s groomsmen–Nealan, Merric, and Owen’s two cousins, Iden and Warric, who Wyldon was glad were inseparable since he had never learned how to tell them apart–were preparing him for the wedding.

“Has the very late Lord of Jesslaw finally deigned to grace us with his presence?” Queenscove’s tart question seemed to be directed at anyone who happened to be in earshot. 

Since Wyldon was the only one who was and also had been keeping a hawk eye out for the Lord of Jesslaw’s belated arrival, he answered crisply, before asking his own question, “No. How’s Owen?” 

“How do you think Owen is?” snapped Queenscove, whatever scant reserves of patience he’d had for this conversation with Wyldon apparently already drained. 

Wyldon was certain that Owen was a barrel of nerves, either from excitement or anxiety. He had hoped to figure out which, but Queenscove remained as incorrigible as ever. Pinching the bridge of his nose he responded testily, “I asked because I don’t know, Queenscove.” 

“Come see for yourself then.” Queescove punctuated this irascible invitation with a slammed door that Wyldon barely managed to catch a sliver before it shut. 

“My father still isn’t here, is he?” Owen, who was having what Wyldon suspected was non-existent dust swept off the shoulders of his tunic by the cousins Wyldon could never tell apart, demanded of Queenscove,. 

Before Queensove could answer in the affirmative, Owen went on, mournful as an abandoned puppy, “He must have been drinking too much last night to awaken in time for the wedding. My sisters were right. I should’ve known better than to rely on him for anything.” 

Frustrated and furious at the Lord of Jesslaw’s inability to assume the most basic duties of fatherhood–such as being present for a son’s wedding–Wyldon fought to speak calmly. Owen didn’t need him adding to the tension in the room after all. “Something always goes wrong at weddings but people never remember the things that go wrong because their focus is on what goes right. We can sit one of your uncle’s in the seat reserved for your father, and nobody is likely to notice the difference. If we have to, we can do the same reshuffling at the wedding feast too.” 

“We won’t have to.” Owen sounded as if he were trying to make a joke about a father who was a disappointment and a disgrace. “There’ll be wine at the feast. My father is always present for any event that provides wine.” 

“At my wedding, the ringbearer dropped our rings, and Vivenne and I had to search for them on the altar floor before we could be married.” Wyldon knew that a fumbling ringbearer wasn’t an equal embarrassment to a drunkard father but he couldn’t think of any other comparison. 

“That’s awful.” To Wyldon’s relief, Owen chuckled. “Do you remember that all the time when you think of your wedding?” 

“No.” Wyldon shook his head. “I’d forgotten it until now as a matter of fact. I remember my wedding as perfect because to me it was, just as yours will be for you.” 

“For it to be perfect, I need someone to pour dirt into my shoes.” Owen’s gray eyes flickered to the cloth bag of dirt beside his shining shoes. It was an ancient Tortallan custom for a bride and groom to wear dirt from their fiefs in their shoes when they married. A bride’s mother was the one to put the dirt in her shoes, while the groom’s father did the same for the groom. In cases where a parent had died, a substitute could be appointed, but Owen’s father was still alive, so nobody had thought to make such an arrangement. 

“I could do it,” offered Wyldon gruffly, certain that he would be refused. 

“Would you please?” Instead of rejection, Owen’s eyes filled with hope as he glanced at Wyldon, and it occurred to Wyldon that perhaps he truly was more of a father to Owen than the absent drunkard although that wasn’t a high bar to clear. “If you don’t mind, that is.” 

“Of course I don’t mind.” Impatient with this beating around the bush he and his future son-in-law were engaged in, Wyldon leaned over to slip Jesslaw dirt–a dry crimson clay so different from the damp, dark soil of Cavall–into Owen’s shoes. “I wanted to be sure you didn’t mind. It’s your wedding day and everything should be as you want it after all.” 

That was a sacred Tortallan tradition that Wyldon respected: that everything was supposed to be as perfect as possible for the bride and groom.


End file.
